


And when the night is dark, I wonder

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 21st Century, Angst, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Politics, Russian annexation of Crimea (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: It seems history is repeating itself, he thinks.That is not necessarily bad.(not necessarily)





	And when the night is dark, I wonder

**Author's Note:**

> ... So here's a fanfic no one wanted or asked for, but I wrote it anyways because... I like politics. And because I read a fanfic from 2013 where these two were in a healthy relationship and then I looked at the news and I was just like. "nope. now I gotta write hetalia about this." if you're interested in my thought process, that's something along the lines of what it's like. Anyways, it appears I may need a big  
>  DISCLAIMER: The story takes place in relatively recent history, and the topic is considered highly controversial by many. I have tried to look through sources that state opinions on both sides of the argument on this issue, but the story will undoubtedly be biased regardless. This story is not meant to offend anyone. The opinions stated by the characters are not necessarily that of the author’s.  
> ...So please don't internet kill me.

Russia first receives the paper on the fourteenth of February. He is one of the first his boss tells, apparently, and the day would have struck a particular irony in him if he had been more bothered to care.

                But he wasn’t, so he just sees it as unusual.

He reads over the words, recalling days like this he’d spent before, sitting in the very same room (the curtains were drawn then though; there was less light and more hushed whispers) and plotting plans that seemed very similar when he thought of it.

                They are to quell unrest, it says, they are to quell unrest in Ukraine. He knows of this; it’s been happening of the late. His sister is trying to leave him, try to make alliances with the Western powers and cut ties with him, and his boss cannot have that. Russia cannot have that.

So, the plan sits and he stares at it, neither frowning nor smiling at the crammed lines of text that dictate how the plan will be set to order. It is his language, hers too- but he knows she would not appreciate it should he tell her that. She has her own language, she’d say, and he’d wonder why she doesn’t use it. But he knows the answer to that.

That makes him frown, and even a crystal clear shot of vodka seems incapable of fixing that.

                The paper stays on the desk when Russia gets up, and collects dust.

.

                Eight days later, Russia is tired. Eight days later, Russia has a bottle of vodka in hand. Eight days later, Russia is probably not doing anyone in the meeting any good.

His boss, his boss’s security, are talking about returning her former president, the one in exile, the one who supports them. They say the current Ukrainian government is biased and corrupt; they’re likely right. They say it stands in the way of the ethnic Russian majority on one of her (-his) peninsulas; they’re right. They don’t say it, but Russia knows it; if her current government stays then Ukraine will leave him, Westernize like Poland and East Germany and Hungary and the others. If her current government stays then Ukraine will leave him, so it must be replaced.

                The chair feels stiff and cold against his back, despite it being cushioned and the room being heated (he can remember times before heating- part of him wonders if the heat has made him weaker).

He is thinking of Ukraine, his sister. He is thinking of when he first met her, how she smiled at him with happiness that seemed to make the dark winter days bright. When she was first her own country; how she celebrated with all the vigor of her rampant nationalist, every word etching her betrayal of him. When he tried to help, tried to fix her, remind her of the truth, and she did nothing but stare at him with that look of loss in her eyes, gaze always fixed on a point behind his head, barely nodding at anything he said. When he fell apart, how she left without another word.

                His glass trembles and cracks in his fist. The glass cuts his skin but it doesn’t matter; he’ll heal soon. No one pays him too much mind anyways, his boss is staring at his head of security with intensity, discussing the plan with fervor.

The night ticks on. Russia stares out the glass paned window, the night slowly dawning upon him. The stars are bright.

_“Rus, what do you think of the stars?” Ukraine had said to him, grabbing his hand and pointing up to the sky above them. Her hands were dirty from farming, her clothes ripped in places, but she was smiling, and that made Russia smile too._

_“I like them… but I do not know any names for them.” Ukraine said when he didn’t respond, only gripped her hand tighter and hanged onto her grip._

_She looked down at him. “You know, I hear there are people in the south who map out the stars. They have names for them all, even the little ones, all the shapes they make. You see that one-“ She pointed to a particularly bright one. “-I think they call that the big wolf!”_

_Russia had looked up at her, unsure at what she was talking about. Stars didn’t have names; they were just stars, spots in the sky. But she seemed so happy to name them, to talk of such useless things, that Russia had just smiled (sometimes, he told himself it was at her foolishness)._

_She had knelt down (back then she was taller than him, that had changed quickly) to look up at him, smiling and placing a hand in his hair. “What do you think, Rus?”_

_And he had paused. For a while he had just stood, letting his sister pet his hair and staring at her, petrified. “I think the stars would be good to warm up my place during winter! To make friends!” he’d exclaimed finally, words rushing out in a hurry to say something so that she did not think ill of him._

_And she’d just laughed, smiling. “I think one day you will go to the stars. All of us. But especially you, Rus.”_

_She had sounded so happy when she said that._

He’d gone to the stars, later. She’d been with him then, smiling through bitten lips and trembling shoulders.

                But he eventually drew his gaze away from the snowed in night (there will be a lot of shoveling to do tomorrow), staring back to his boss and his men.

“We must start working on returning Crimea to Russia” His boss says, placing a hand on the map in front of him, Russia’s men nodding.

                He lets go of his glass, forgetting that it is broken. The pieces shatter with blatant noise, crumpling onto the fancy table along with a measure of his blood.

His men turn to him, the ones who do not know his purpose confused at his presence and the ones who do confused at his actions.

                “Ivan, are you alright?” One of the men says after a puncturing silence, and Russia turns to him.

He is dressed in dark blue, near black, patches crossing his chest and Russia’s flag to his arm. He knows who Russia is, though not fully. Russia does not know his name.

                Russia pauses. “I am fine.” He says. This is normal, he does not say. My heart falls out occasionally, it is all fine.

After another concerned pause, his men regarding him with averted eyes and his boss staring as though he knows something even Russia fails to know about himself, they turn back to their business. And Russia turns back to the window, not bothering to pick up the red shards of glass.

.

The country of Ukraine is almost nice to be in, if it had not been part of an integration project. Had it not been Russia’s land, that Ukraine had refused to return to him.

                He sounds like a liar, even to himself. It isn’t an annexation, his boss told him, and perhaps he was right, Russia had seen many annexations and they usually didn’t look like this. But something kept reminding him of his sister’s pained expression from years past, and he could not push that word out of his mind. It was not right, but he thought it regardless.

He is not in the armed forces today, though, they said they did not need him. The people will revolt on their own, his officials had told him, and they were right. They had revolted less than a week previous, and now Russia sat, on a bench, in what would soon be his country.

He looked out onto the land before him, wondering with mild interest as to how his sister was. In the past time, he had scarce seen her. She had not been present at meetings (meetings he did not attend, but Belarus informed him she was absent), his officials had not met up with hers.

                He had seen her once, yesterday.

There had been a protest over the new mayor of Simferopool, supporters of his clashing with supporters of hers over the legitimacy of the new government, the government that supported him.

                He had not protested, he had been there solely to observe preparations for today. But he had looked onto the crowd, hearing the angry yells of Russians, Ukrainian and Tatars alike, and let his gaze glaze over as he lost himself in mental preparations.

He remembered it because he’d just been running over how to properly secure the Supreme Council Building of the Crimea.

                He had been standing, just aside from the rampant crowds, staring out, when suddenly he’d heard it.

“You cannot take what is not yours, Rus!” A woman said, in a scathingly familiar voice. _But is it really yours, Ukraine?_ He’d returned in thought before he’d even fully recognized.

                And when he turned his gaze in that direction, eyes flashing with alarm, he had seen her.

Amid the yellow and blue, the red and the white, she was there, tears streaming down her face, being dragged off by a pair of guards.

                And for a second she caught his eyes.

She almost smiled, but she was crying too much.

Russia remembered this because he had to implement the plan he’d been revising.

                His men had already taken over the building, setting up barricades outside with efficiency. The people protested, but could do nothing.

Marching into the building, though the bland architecture and the slightly-dirty carpet (poor, that’s what she was, what her people were) he turned. The building was empty, his men outside raising his flag and holding the barricade.

There were people protesting, of course, but they were a minority, a minority which did not know what was best for them. Time and time again, Ukraine had showed herself incapable of dictating her own decision properly, of managing her government. She did not deserve this territory, this territory that was so obviously his.

                Russia looks outside, not tearing his gaze away until he realizes he is likely needed somewhere, a fact which should have been obvious to him. He needed to hold down the fort, make sure the operation is going smoothly.

He glances down, only to see a drop of bright red on the floor. Briefly, he pauses as to what it might be, than decides against bothering to wonder.

                He walks solemnly down the hallway yet again, boots tearing at the rug as he paces briskly towards his operation.

The men will not be able to hold the barrier for too long, he thinks with decisiveness. They would have to keep the protesters for as long as possible, to show the prowess of their forces, but if they waited too long and were weakened, then they would risk seeming weak, hence giving the rabid nationalists more hope. It is a game of precision, he thinks, biting his tongue before wincing unintentionally at the taste.

                He tastes blood, he thinks as he reaches the door to the hall, shoving it open without effort. He wipes a finger to his lips, and it comes away red.

His hands shake, he blinks. His lips part.

He stares out at the crowds, at the men dressed in black and the men painted in blue and yellow and the barriers keeping his sister out from his ( _her-_ ) parliament.

                The wall is steady next to him, and his knees buckle, kneeling on the (ripped up) carpet. Pebbles digs into his knees like dirt from eras past, kicked in from his men evacuating the politicians and their lies.

He had seen this before, has done this before, done things such as this- things worse and better, but he thought that was over now.

                He thought he would not have to tell his sister what was right anymore. He did not believe his boss would risk such a move, that it would be allowed, and that he could do as he pleased so close to the European Union. But then again, it was not like they had not been fighting wars either, that America had not been sifting through the Middle East since 1979, so perhaps they simply found it hypocritical.

Or perhaps they were just scared of him.

                Did they- did they not like him? Was he not their friend? He knew America still did not like him, that was fine (he did not like America much either), but the others- France, Lithuania, his own sister? It had not occurred to him to be possible.

No- they must not care, they must not lack that much self-awareness as to _their_ past actions, either. They cannot hold him responsible for 1933 when they had their endless conquests and pillages, when Germany had all of 1939 through 1945, they would be hypocrites to do so.

                Wouldn’t they?

He swallowed thickly, pressing his palms to the carpet in a sort of way that reminded him of prayer.

He opens his eyes, for when he closes them, all he can see is Ukraine crying, screaming, starving.

And he stands still, observes the pattern of the carpet with a fascination that must seem near insanity to any onlooker. They are trident, tridents of all things, symbols of hers.

His fingers curl in the tattered rug, which reminds him too much of days past. He is not sobbing, he is not crying, he is not-

                Russia shoves himself back, onto his heels and up so he can see out of the door. He leans against the wall for less than a second, steadies himself. He can feel his heart outpacing itself, feel his teeth digging into his lip. He is- this is- this is fine.

This is good. This is for his country, this is for his sister, this is for his people, the people of the Crimea, the people who wish to join him. This is for the best, and things have changed but takeovers (integrations, integrations, not annexations) do not.

                Russia is not crying, Russia is smiling.

Russia kicks the door open, and goes out to estimate how long his men can hold.

.

He gets the next letter later, in March. This date holds no particular irony to him, so little he does not bother to remember which day it is.

                It is from the Western powers. America, the European Union (they appear to be a coalition of separate countries, but he knows they are essentially one, what he was years ago), they are telling him there will be limits on his supplies, limits and restrictions on his imports from them. They will not declare war on him, which he finds odd but does not protest.

His boss does not seem concerned, just saying it will be better for Russian economy, to have more to their own produce. He does not seem concerned even when they are suspended from the G8, when other powers turn their backs to him. And Russia agrees with him. They do not need the moral grandstanding of Western powers; they do not need their hypocrisy nor their lies. They have a port in the Black Sea now, the embargo’s effect will be less important than it would be had they not taken back their righteous territory, their ancient homeland.

(Ukraine is crying. Ukraine is telling him she loves him. Ukraine is kissing him, on the cheeks in reality; on his lips in his dreams. Ukraine is tearing apart from her own corruption. Ukraine is trying to leave him. Ukraine is beyond his reach.)

                Russia reads the letters, over and over, checks the mail every day. But he does not receive any mail, not the type he wants, at least. There are reports, files upon files of taxes and economy plans, of industry and agriculture (and he remembers when there were more on the latter than the former). There are letters of disapproval from a few, passive notes from others, signs of fear from few. Belarus sends him a congratulation card.

But there is nothing other than that, nothing he is looking for.

                Summer arrives, and it is still cold (in his bones, at least; it seems to be warmer these days) but he is happier, in some fashion. The Western powers seem willing to let this blow over (his boss says they are scared of him; Russia does not say he disagrees) for reasons he fails to understand, and eventually it passes in favour of political scandals and celebrity news.

But although things are better now, with more of what is rightfully his returned to him, he still is tired, for some god forbidden reason he cannot sleep.

                Until one day he receives a letter, not in the mail but under his doorstep, lacking a stamp with thin, wrinkled paper.

He opens it without need of a letter opener (which is good, because he doesn’t have one), not shivering in the cold as he unfold the paper, something in his chest swelling at the thought of what it might be. It’s possible it is yet another tax return, simply filed improperly. It is possible, but he does not think so.

And he is right. For it is not printed or typed, instead covered with messy and cramped but yet still fancy writing, spread out over a single page with only three meager lines of text.

_Brother,_

_I do not forgive you._

_But I still love you._

And that is all.

                For what feels like until the sun rises, Russia stares at the note.

Until the sun does rise, and he puts it away, leaves it in the dresser of his room, not to be touched nor reminisced.

                But he is smiling when he puts it away, not happily, but smiling nonetheless.

And that surprises him.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> -The Russian annexation of the Crimea took place from February 20th-March 19th, involving the Russian government annexing (although they do not appreciate it being called so) the before then Ukrainian peninsula of Crimea, which held a majority of Russian-speakers, as opposed to Ukrainians.  
> -Part of what prompted the annexation was the Euromaiden protests in Kiev (December 11th 2013) after Viktor Yanukovych (pro-Russian president elected mostly by the Eastern and Crimean provinces) suspended the signing of the Ukraine–European Union Association Agreement, which went against the Western portions of the country’s will to increase economic ties with the EU and western powers as opposed to Russia.  
> -During the night of the 22nd-23rd of February, President Vladimir Putin (I didn’t mention his name but he’s Russia’s boss) held a meeting to discuss the return of now-former Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych. Putin concluded the meeting by saying ‘We must start working on returning Crimea to Russia’  
> -On the 23rd, pro-Russian protests were held in the largest city on the peninsula, Svastopol. Four days later, masked Russian troops took the parliament building of the city, raising Russian flags outside the building. This lead to the subsequent decision to hold a referendum as to whether Crimea should receive higher autonomy within the Ukraine, which was later changed as to whether Crimea should join Russia.  
> -The referendum was deemed illegitimate by the Ukrainian government on March 14th, and a day later the Crimean parliament was dissolved. The referendum went on regardless of the Ukrainian government’s protests, and showed results of 97% of voters opting for becoming part of Russia and a 83% turnout. A report was later posted (and taken down very rapidly) by a Ukrainian news site which stated that these facts were inflated and only 30% of the voters opted for Russia, with a 50% turn out. (Indicating only 15% of the population actually wanted annexation). Another report by the Human Rights Council states “In Crimea, according to various indicators, 50-60% voted for unification with Russia with a voter turnout (yavka) of 30-50%.” Either way, the numbers are highly debated.  
> -One of Russia’s main motivations for taking Crimea was to keep its fleet there, the country’s main access to warm water trade through the Black sea.  
> -After the annexation, Russia was suspended from the G8, and trade sanctions had been placed on the country by the EU, the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Ukraine itself, Norway and Japan.  
> -References are made to the Holodomor, the 1933 forced starvation of Ukraine inflicted by the Russian Stalinist regime, along with the 1979 American war in Afghanistan (although Russia was in that war too), and the subsequent American interference in wars in the middle East such as the Iran-Iraq war of 1998. World War 2 is also referenced.  
> ...That was long. Apologies.  
> If there's anything about this issue I missed, or if someone has a different interpretation of the topic, please tell me- I'm by no means an expert on this stuff, and I really hesitated on posting this because I don't want to offend or misinform anyone!  
> Otherwise, thanks for reading!


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